Little Princeling
by Fortyfive stars
Summary: Come, come, take a closer look at the last hours of Severus Snape with us. I don't think it's angsty at all, but.. anyway, some mature themes in there, and implied character death. Halfcanon, HGRW implied. HalfBlood Prince spoilers.


**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, nothing I tell ye. I shall have to think of a clever jingle for  
the disclaimer part.  
**A/N:** I'm not entirely sure what this is, to be perfectly honest. I wanted to make  
something good, something spot-on Severus and I wanted to give you all a peek into  
his mind but, um… well, I came up with something as you may well see, but I can't  
really say what the fault is with it. Nevertheless I believe it's quite good.

- - - -- - - -- - - -- - - -- - - -

Headmistress McGonagall gestured for them to settle down, even as she leaned back,  
hands steepled together. "Come, sit. We have a lot to cover –for I understand there  
are some things you'll need explaining although I confess I had not expected so…" she  
trailed off thoughtfully, and then appeared to come back into focus. "Refreshments?"  
Well, theres the british to you. Even in the middle of a crisis they are bound to be dreadfully  
polite.  
They declined, as she had known they would. She could see the tension in their faces  
and bodies, read it in the way the shifted. Minerva was never perceived as all that  
subtle, but she had now become forced to be.  
And there was hurt in this room, as well, of many different sorts. Grief, pain,  
betrayed trust, great sadness, even love. Love between the four youths sitting before  
her, quietly waiting. Ginny, Harry, Hermione, Ron. Love spun its webs and threads  
between them, cocooned them, and it was so oddly hope inspiring.  
"I believe that you have questioned in particular my decision that we shall dedicate no  
effort to find –and punish- Severus Snape." Harry nodded, a forceful jerk up and  
down. If there ever was a demanding nod, that was it.  
"Very well. It is simply my belief that no matter what we do, we will not find him. He  
has… gone under ground, disappeared. I am not surprised that you should disagree  
with this but I had thought that after a little time to think on it you would come  
around…?"  
"He killed Professor Dumbledore! Can you forgive and forget _so easily_,  
Headmistress?" She turned a sharp eye upon the speaker, quelling anything else that  
might have come. Then she smiled thinly.  
"Miss Granger, Miss Granger… there is no forgive, there is no forget. _Never in this_.  
But we are at war, my dears, and we can ill afford to lose. We don't even know where  
he has gone. And, yes, this you will find it hard to believe but please know, please  
realise… it is not Sev- Snape that we should concentrate our powers on. He is as  
nothing to us, I think."  
"I believe he has proved beyond all doubt that he is very much a dangerous person,  
Professor." Hermione said quietly, not daring to look up so therefore fixedly keeping  
her eyes on where Ron's hand securely clasped hers.  
"Oh, Miss Granger… Snape is not dangerous anymore, not in his own right. You may  
well believe that I am only giving up the chase for the foul murderer because it is futile.  
I am certain that he is right now –or very soon- experiencing his own personal hell,  
as certain of that as I am of my own breath."

- - - -

Accursed mistakes, accursed fortune. For so long he had balanced, managed, and now  
a little slip should send him toppling into the dark abyss. A small nuance. That was all.  
Although Severus had to admit that it was probably beyond foolish to have stood  
before Lord Voldemort and announced that, that… he blanched, saw it all again.

_"And Dumbledore?" Voldemort hissed in a strange and high voice.  
"I have killed him." Severus replied and he was calm enough_,

but there was his mistake. Just a shade of emphasis on the _I_, just a nuance too much of pride.  
There was pride, and then there was _pride_, and Voldemort well knew the difference.  
Should his death be reduced to merely the thing that spurred someone else to  
overthrow the mad creature and grasp power for himself? Should Severus's goals,  
dreams, years of patience and pain become nothing? It should not. It would not.  
And then, absolutely unbidden, a memory rose of when he was very young and  
rarely in contact with the hated shadow of his youth, Dumbledore. Soft-hearted,  
gullible Dumbledore. Great, accomplished, respected-above-all-else Dumbledore.  
Dead Dumbledore. (And out of all these he thought the last one remained the most  
satisfying.) He smiled thinly, genuine in his joy.  
The memory prompted, nudged, refused to be set aside – and how he hated to not  
be the master of his own mind. Severus admitted a very, very small sigh before he  
turned inwards and explored the memory with much the same manner as that of an  
angry parent greeting a wayward child that has finally deigned to return home. The  
years swirled away before his inner eye, and…

_He was young, so incomprehensibly young. The little Snape was not much more  
appreciated by his peers at eleven years than he was at fifteen, but as of yet  
the Marauders were not making his life hell all the time._ **No, when they were eleven  
they only devoted _half_ their energy to that favourite pastime,** he thought bitterly  
as he withdrew himself momentarily and then plunged back in. The memory  
was a bit dim, but came back clearer and clearer with every second rushing by –_  
sunshine, early spring. A light breeze over his face; the younger Severus opened his  
eyes and stared up at the blue sky and the wisps of clouds with an expression on his  
bleak face that was as close to happiness as he ever let himself show. _Had anyone  
entered this memory they would have seen the Headmaster slowly approaching and  
they would have felt the old man's sadness that even when for all he knew he was  
alone Severus kept himself so tightly guarded. But no one was likely to step inside for  
this memory was kept securely locked up._ He sat under the beech tree by the lake, the  
one in whose shade three very important young people would many years later  
stand and talk. _Their conversation would be grave, stained by sadness and anger over  
events he had caused and brought about, and yet laced with joy but through no effort  
of his. But he was an unpleasant boy and would grow up into an unpleasant man and  
it is so absurdly unlikely he would have wanted to bring them happiness in any  
measure anyway. However he knew nothing of that sort then, and not later either,  
and in the memory  
_he was curled up lazily, although his mind was hard at work with unfathomable  
thoughts – perhaps categorizing the twelve different uses for Dragon's blood, or  
mulling over a spell, or in the way of those who are powerless to carry it out he was  
imagining all the gruesome revenges he would inflict upon his tormentors. Either  
way he was within minutes disturbed for a wizard unexpectedly had sought his  
company, a tall man that was not yet stooped with age though he was clearly old.  
His long beard, severely greying, flowed over the front of his dark blue robe that  
was emblazoned with thousands of small, brightly twinkling stars. This description  
withstanding said this clearly could be no other than Dumbledore, and Snape, quite  
amused –but in a disdainful way- glanced upwards until he could meet the  
headmaster's startlingly blue eyes_ Somewhere in the real world in a bleak dungeon cell,  
the old Severus Snape drew a deep breath and seriously considered disentangling  
himself from the recollection before it ran its full length.** Why this memory? Why now?**  
_"Mr. Snape, isn't it?" Dumbledore inquired curiously. His spectacles was even now a  
little askew, slipping down his nose, and he did an admirable job of looking like  
someone's perfectly harmless grandfather as he peered over the rim of them down  
at the boy. The so titled Mr. Snape nodded. And then, to his youthful astonishment,  
Dumbledore did not merely nod and smile and move on, but instead sat down on the  
ground in front of him. Not to mention that he appeared quite cheerful about it all,  
sitting cross-legged with robes conscientiously smoothed out.  
"Headmaster?"  
"Student?" At this serene reply Severus vowed to ignore the headmaster's obviously  
strange humour. It was infamous already.  
"Is something the matter, sir?" That he was polite did not matter, he did not doubt  
that Dumbledore could hear the unvoiced 'because otherwise I don't see why you are  
disturbing me'.  
"Why, yes, I rather think there is, Mr. Snape. Do you see, I have for some time been  
considering this problem."  
"Oh?" And against his will Severus found himself almost inclined to actually listen.  
His was a puzzle-solving mind and so it would always remain, just as his scathing  
tongue and the way he had no patience with those less quick than he.  
"Yes, I was in fact rather hoping that perhaps you could procure a satisfactory  
answer for me."  
"Sir?" On the other hand he was not 'chummy' with anyone, had no wish to be, and  
definitely would not like to grow a reputation for having a friendly attitude towards  
teachers. He had no friendly attitude towards anyone, and a particularly unfriendly  
manner with everyone.  
"Quite, boy, quite. Do you like it?" Dumbledore nodded towards his open palm, upon  
which a butterfly of fragile, nervously fluttering beauty had landed. Severus,  
however, only gazed at it for a few seconds, and shrugged dispassionately. Had he  
liked butterflies, it would only have been for the chance of putting them on pins.  
"Not really, Sir." he replied. Dumbledore was silent for just a little while and then  
unexpectedly gave the butterfly a smart little rap with his wand. Why it didn't fly  
away Severus did not know and he didn't stop to think about it for resting in the  
headmaster's palm was a golden butterfly. It was of course dead, inanimate as only  
a soulless object can be, and the wings were set with jewels of different colours. It  
was exquisite, wonderful and so very vulnerable.  
"Well?" Dumbledore was saying. "Do you perhaps like it better this way?"  
"Not at all, Sir. I don't much care for it now either." he said. And it was true.  
"Remarkable," the older man replied but he appeared to not truly think so. Instead  
he stared intently into Severus's eyes for a few seconds, for all purposes seeming to  
chart the darkness in them. Then he abruptly left the matter alone. "Remarkable indeed.  
So I see you may be the person who can answer my questions anyway."  
And after that Dumbledore had surreptitiously glanced around before leaning in closer,  
and in feathery half-tones given the young boy three questions. Three only. Then he  
had smiled genially and gotten up (not without a hearty joke entirely on his own  
expense about the disheartening combination of sitting on the ground and old age)  
to disappear off to somewhere. Severus sat staring after the tall figure for some time  
and yes, now his mind was hard at work as well.  
Of course Dumbledore had not left without thanking the 'dear Severus' for devoting  
some time to these matters and though the headmaster appeared not to have  
noticed his lapse (that only consisted of calling him by his given name) the boy in  
question grit his teeth quietly. He could consider himself lucky to not have any  
friends at all because that made this easier to keep under wraps. Dumbledore giving  
him any special treatment…? Why? Pity? Unbearable. Maybe he thought he was a  
lost little boy, in need of guidance. Laughable. Snape had never, not even as a child,  
kept a light on the nightstand, perfectly unafraid or at least perfectly ready to never  
admit to moments of fear, and he sincerely doubted anything at Hogwarts could be  
worse than the tainted darkness in the Snape home. So why? Why this cryptic  
approach, and why –and this was most important- come to such a young person  
with these questions?_  
Although some of these last questions would not appear before him until a few years  
later, and even later yet a few answers eventually began to come.  
_And this had been the first actual meeting between them, the time Dumbledore went  
from being an ultimate authority figure in an office somewhere to a real, if odd,  
person._

- - - -

Severus Snape sits on the hay-covered floor, long lean body easily folded up and  
reclining against the wall. He suspects there are rats somewhere in the darkness of  
this cell, is quite sure of it in fact as he has already kicked out several times at  
scurrying things that were too solid to be shadows. He is… contemplating. Thinking.  
Wondering, and guessing. His was always a puzzle-solving mind and now it is  
working furiously, it is turning pieces and angling them and putting them together.  
He had won, hadn't he? Yes, he was currently imprisoned by a mad red-eyed  
creature that unfortunately had happened to stumble over the truth and now is quite  
secure in the belief that Severus is a traitor. And, yes, he _is_, but… all this, isn't it just a  
mere technical detail, a small inconvenience to be dealt with at leisure, the Prince in  
him whispers. And, Nay, not so, the Severus part answers. This danger is very real  
and he has now, it appears, underestimated his mad master one time too many. But,  
still… did he not win? Is not Dumbledore dead, his long years of false service done with?  
Y es. It is so. And he will find a way to make another, even greater victory soon  
enough. He will be more than the sums of his parts, his life more worth than his  
death. His worth so much more than those around him.  
And yet, and yet. And yet there is a nagging thought in the back of his mind, and it  
whispers – _if it was you who won, why does his three questions still burn like a torch  
in your brain?_ Because they do. He has never been able to rid himself of them, never  
stopped occasionally pondering them. Many times has he been impressed with his  
own cleverness and smiled as he formed an answer and then reformed it and  
reformed it, and yet they remain. _So was it not he who won?_  
The Half-blood Prince will not let himself be defeated so easily, and he smiles a small,  
bitter smile at the thought of that old nickname that was his own homage to vanity.  
For has he not just recently been showed how much of a prince he is, how easily  
overpowering Lord Voldemort is when he holds your mind in his hands and simply  
_steps_ on it? And yet… and yet the youthful Prince in him cannot make himself form  
the words of defeat, not even when only wiry, sly Severus Snape is the one to know them.

- - - -

"You run from me in vain." A voice speaks to him in a room that is too large and  
too bright. He is sleepy, not fully awake, and terrified out of his mind. He is resentful,  
as well, so very angry and bitter with himself for not yet having found a way out and for  
letting a tiny gasp escape his lips. The Prince should not, would not, have done that  
no matter the cost but Severus is not as young as he once was and he knows immense  
pain as well as precious few else does.  
This voice, oh, this voice… loathsome, loathsome rasping creature that is even now  
more human and less, at the same time less, than anyone also in this room. Cold, cold  
hands touches him, so many of them and they are everywhere, taking everything he  
has ever had and will have, taking and robbing him of any note he might still have  
had of his self-worth.  
"So, my precious spy, my worthy one… you would overthrow me… my prince?"  
And the last sane voice in his head wails earth shatteringly for there is nothing  
Lord Voldemort does not know when he owns your soul, owns it so thoroughly.  
Severus cannot hide behind his Prince anymore, his armour of child-dreams are broken  
forever with every word from that high, fluting voice.  
A single hand caresses him now, a single finger drawing an imaginary line across the  
gaunt planes of his trembling abdomen. He is cold, he realises, cold and sweating  
with exertion – every inhalation and exhalation is a breath of fear spiking through  
him. And then, he knows this ritual so well as he has seen it many times many years  
ago, his mind is overwhelmed with images that hide nothing, letting him hide nothing  
as desire and intense arousal floods his senses. Somewhere deep within Severus can  
feel the Half-Blood Prince howling with rage but he is himself too busy to keep back tears.  
Tears that would completely shame him in this ritual that is every bit as humiliating  
as it is intended. The Dark Lord wants him to cry under his hands, cry as he is crushed  
mercilessly beneath a muddy boot _but is not Severus worth more than this_?  
Is he not more than the sums of his part and did he not swear to become more  
than nothing, more worth than anyone? He is, and he did. Yet here, now, in the present,  
is the bitter truth that even the most clever and best of men must face, here  
is the utter humiliating submission that only raw power can compel.  
So unable to hide anything from anyone he is forced into a place deep inside himself,  
entrapped. He sees, observes, notices everything he is becoming. But the oppressive  
weight of another's controlling mind –_Master, master! Oh, forgive me, master!_- is  
upon and above and inside his own and he cannot cry out even as in a room deep  
underground he is maimed and disfigured and made into a mockery, a comic beast of  
old fairy tales.  
And during the short time he has left to live three questions burn before his inner eyes.  
He thinks he may understand now, both the questions and the answers although  
neither are directly linked to what he has been made into now.

_What is greatness? It is the stain that can be removed_, so said Dumbledore. And  
Severus, priding himself on a puzzle-solving mind, can now finally fill in the rest. _It is  
the stain that can be removed, the honour that can be redeemed, the love that can be  
remembered, the wrong that can be forgiven._ (he does not even momentarily  
wonder if his wrongs may be forgiven for he has not done anything wrong, and is at  
any rate not a man seeking divine or mortal forgiveness)  
_Which one is the most important piece in the game? The one you cannot remove or  
conquer, the one that might and will undo you.  
What is a golden butterfly? A fleeting moment captured in time, like a memory.  
A thing of immense beauty if done right, and an act of evil if done right for have you  
not erased the soul of a living thing? A reminder of how swift footed is the run of life  
and how ungraspable it is for all living things die, leaving nothing behind at last._

- - - -

"That he has killed Dumbledore –and, by his own take, defeated him- is not what  
makes him dangerous," she said softly, "that is what makes him worthy of pity. And doomed.  
For have no doubt," (her voice grew stronger, edged with hardness) "that he is now  
about to face a doom that was never more certain. And, if it can sooth a youthful heart…  
though it pains me I should speak these words and intend them as comfort…  
rest assured that nothing we could ever have inflicted upon him will be close to  
what his master will do. _Nothing_." They still must have looked confused -for want of  
a better word- for the headmistress's expression grew kind, almost benign.  
"Oh, my dears. It is poor words but comfort is hard to come by these days – you think  
me unfair, perhaps, to speak to you thus? I am unfair and will so continue to be, and  
if there is such a thing as judgement after death then I shall have to answer for what I  
am about to do you four and so, so many others. I will take your youth and your  
freshness and your minds and when you have given all I will ask for more to take – do  
you understand me? I will do everything short of the actions of our enemies, for to  
cross that line is to betray everything. And if you still wish to turn back… there is no  
way back. I am so, so very sorry but there is no other way to go for you now. Welcome  
–truly welcome- to the Order of the Phoenix." But Professor McGonagall believed  
they would understand, and felt inexplicably cheered by that thought.

- - - -

"Shall we plunge the dagger Fengur into you now, my expensive prince, shall we hear  
you scream? Or perhaps," and Voldemort chortles, his amusement echoed by the  
gathered Death Eaters that are even now eyeing the naked, bound figure in  
anticipation, "yes, perhaps you will be innocent. And yet I doubt it." He leans in  
closer, whispers something no one else may catch. "You need only say 'please' and  
I will not."  
And Severus, with a lifetime of hatred boiling in him, clearly says: "No."

- - - -- - - -- - - -- - - -- - - -

Fengur is a magical name (from Iceland) for the Scandinavian god Odin. Worship of  
him could be quite cruel, including human and animal sacrifices.  
Well, all this is nonsense. I thought it began quite well, but then it faltered towards  
the ending and I should be glad for any possible suggestions. I am thinking of a second  
chapter, but I will have to consider putting in more actual action, I suspect.  
**E**.


End file.
